


Monachopsis

by CurlzForMetal



Category: Kings of Con (Web Series)
Genre: Afterlife, Death, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Horror, Not A Happy Ending, Reapers, Way Too Much Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-25 18:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlzForMetal/pseuds/CurlzForMetal
Summary: n. the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was my very first bang, and while it's short, at the time it was the longest thing I'd written. This took a lot longer to complete than it should have, but that's okay because I ditched my first story idea. Whoops. First off, I would like to thank my artist, [ spacematriarchy](spacematriarchy.tumblr.com), for her absolutely wonderful art pieces. Secondly, my best friend [Alex](grumblingdragon.tumblr.com), who is the bomb. They talked me through some last minute panic and took a look (several looks) at my fic and helped me get it right. Most of all, thank you to the mods, who were absolute darlings to put this bang on for us. Thank you for all your hard work you guys!

Rich wakes up to grass. It's waving gently, shimmering in the sunlight. The grass is wild, tangled around his wrists and ankles, but it smells like it's been freshly cut. 

 

Rich lays, the green strands wrapped around him. He hums softly, the sun kissing his face with warmth. He knows he should move, figure out why he doesn't remember how he ended up here, but he would rather lay there. 

 

The grass keeps moving with the wind, and it takes Rich a while to realize there is no wind. The grass is just waving lazily, tangling together against the backdrop of blue sky, but there’s no breeze to move it. Rich feels like that should startle him, but it seems normal. 

 

It's enough to get him to free his wrists from the grass manacles, sliding out of the green knots. He sits up, stretching, his eyes tracing the land before him. There's mountains to his right and a sea to his left. A little ways ahead is a copse of large, gnarled trees. 

 

He stands, twisting to see behind him - it's more grass, as far as the eye can see, just waves of rolling green between the sea and the mountains. Rich turns back to face the trees and sticks his hands into his pockets, wandering in that direction. It feels right, the look of the branches breaking up the skyline with jagged edges. Rich thinks there should be leaves - the air feels like that edge between spring and summer, but the trees are bare. 

 

The sun hasn't moved from its place in the sky when Rich reaches the grove of trees. They're far bigger up close, the bark rough and twisted under Rich's exploring hands. He wanders further into the grove, and though they have no leaves, the branches crowd together enough to block out the sun, leaving only small dots of light to dapple the ground.

 

The ground is dry, barren of grass and leaves. As Rich walks, his feet leave scuffs in the dust, and it takes a while for him to notice that he's following a set of prints that were already there. He runs a hand through his beard and tries to remember when they appeared. He continues to follow the prints, his hand sliding back down to his pocket. 

 

The footprints lead him to the center of the grove, where a man sits with his legs crossed in the middle of a clearing. The branches above are curled into a circle, letting a single beam of light shine directly down on the man. 

 

The man himself is small, head tilted into the sun, eyes closed. He has a short beard and wild curls of hair that hold up a small crown of ferns and poppies. Rich thinks they're odd plants to make a flower crown out of. 

 

Rich stops at the edge of the clearing, watching him. The man is quiet, until he's not, and Rich can hear soft humming. Rich shifts, and he must have made noise, because the man opens his eyes, looking straight at Rich. 

 

He stands gracefully - at least, right up until he trips over himself to step forward and Rich launches forward to catch him and straighten him up. The man gives a pained smile, a flush creeping up his face to his ears.

 

“I, ah, thanks,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. 

 

Rich blinks at him before realizing he should be responding. “I guess you fell for me, huh?” The other man stares for a moment before laughing. 

 

He sticks his hand out and Rich takes it. “That is the single best thing I've ever had said to me. I'm Rob.”

 

“Rich,” he replies, grinning. They drop each other's hands and Rob reaches up to straighten the flower crown. 

 

Rob kicks at the dust before meeting Rich's eyes and then wrenches them away. “So, I have this whole speech I'm supposed to give, but I've forgotten most of it. I'm just gonna lay it all out for you.”

 

Rich raises an eyebrow and shifts his weight to a more casual pose. Rob seems to relax. 

 

“You're, um, dead. I'm here to lead - not really lead, more like help you lead yourself? Anyways, I'm here to help you find your way to your...” Rob pauses, searching for the right word, “...forever?” 

 

“You mean like my afterlife? Or my next life?”

 

Rob shrugs helplessly. “They don't tell us these things. I just have a job.”

 

Rich shrugs, his mouth tilting into a small smile. “Eh, could be worse. We could both be wearing flower crowns.”

 

It takes Rob a moment, but when he gets it, he blushes and sputters, and Rich thinks he's cute when he's embarrassed. 

 

Rob gives him a funny look, and Rich realizes he may have spoken out loud. 

 

Rob clears his throat, blue eyes nervously flicking to and fro. “I'm, er, here to help you.”

 

Rich makes an amused noise in the back of his throat. “Help me do what?” 

 

Rob blinks and one of the flowers falls from his hair. As Rich leans down to pick it up, Rob says, “I don't know.”

 

Rich huffs, grinning and tucking the poppy back into Rob's hair. “I guess we'll find out, huh?”

 

Rob blushes again. “Yeah.”

 

The trees are silent around them, light still dappling the ground harshly. “So the afterlife, huh?”

 

Rob nods jerkily, hand resting on the back of his neck. “Yeah. You're dead. I know that at the end of,” Rob pauses, before gesturing to around them. “...whatever this is, you're supposed to move on, in whatever form that takes.”

 

“Reincarnation?”

 

“If that's what you believe in.” 

 

Rich tilts his head and jokes, “I barely know who I am, let alone what I believe in.” The joke falls flat, and Rob stares with sad eyes. 

 

“We'll find it, whatever it is.”

 

They stand in the dappled sunlight, observing one another. Rob clears his throat. “Where do you want to go?” 

 

Rich doesn't know exactly what Rob is talking about, but he responds anyway. “Las Vegas. Strippers galore.”

 

Rob gives him a blank stare. “...Las Vegas? That's a rather small settlement.”

 

Rich blinks. “Um, no. It's huge.”

 

They stare at one another before Rob responds. “It's been awhile since I walked the earth.”

 

Rich shrugs. He's heard stranger things - like how he's dead. “I'll have to tell you about it.”

 

Rob tilts his head. “I suppose you will.”

 

The trees sway around them, and Rich only notices because they start to. It's strange - the trees move like they're in wind, but they make no sound. 

 

Here, nothing truly makes sound. It's the only thing to rub Rich raw. He needs to fill the silence, so he starts to talk. 

 

“Which way do we go?”

 

“Wherever you want. You lead yourself here, now lead yourself there.” 

 

Rich shrugs and picks a direction. He walks, Rob following closely, and fuck, it's far too quiet. The trees still move silently, and the only noise comes from him and Rob moving through them. 

 

They burst into sunlight, the trees grouping against some invisible edge. There's grass again, green and waving and silent. Rich curses, just to fill up the empty space. 

 

The blue sky and rolling grass simply swallow the sound of his frustration. 

 

Rob hums behind him. “What's wrong?”

 

“I don't like the quiet.”

 

“Then talk.”

 

Rich thinks on it, standing there between dappled shade and open sky. He starts walking again, and while walking, he starts talking.

 

Rich doesn't remember anything. All he knows is he woke up in a field. He tells Rob this. He also tells Rob small things he does know. He knows about the world he came from, he knows that cons are some of the best things in the world - but he doesn't remember why, or have any recollection of attending one himself. 

 

They wander through the sea of grass, almost like they're each floating gently through. Rich talks until he has nothing left; but the world remains too quiet, too void of sound. 

 

They're moving towards the mountains, and Rich wishes the sun would move - it's too bright, to quiet. He himself barely makes noise pushing through the grass, and Rob is a ghost next to him. 

 

They walk. 

 

“Does the sun ever fucking change?”

 

Rob takes a moment to respond, and it's not even a really answer. “Sometimes.”

 

Rich sighs. 

 

They walk. 

 

The sun doesn't change, doesn't shift in the sky, the grass continues waving around them. Rich has to glance to make sure Rob's still there with him. 

 

“ _ All leaves are this leaf _ ,” Rob starts, and Rich jumps, startled. It's the first break in the silence in years. “ _ All petals are this flower / and abundance is a lie. _ ” Rich meets Rob's eyes as he continues reciting softly. “ _ For all fruit is the same / the trees are one, alone / and the earth, a single flower. _ ” 

 

Rich swallows tightly. There had been something soft and aching in Rob's voice, and Rich isn't sure how to deal with it. “Poetry?”

 

Rob graces him with a smile, his ferns and poppies tilting precariously in his hair. “Yes. Pablo Neruda. He was quite famous when I was on Earth. Do not fear the world around you, Richard, for we are all one and the same.”

 

Rich nods, and slowly keeps walking. “Do you - do you know any more?” 

 

Rob grins a small smile that plucks at the edges of his mouth. “I'd like to think I know quite a lot.”

 

Rich laughs, “Go on then. Impress me with your mad poetry skills.”

 

“ _ She lay, skin down on the moist dirt / the canebrake rustling / with the whispers of leaves, and / loud longing of hounds and / the ransack of hunters crackling near the branches. _ ” Rob blushes under his flowers and ferns as he continues to recite. 

 

They walk in tandem now, Rich listening to Rob's easy recitation of poems, long and short. His voice is measured and steady, and Rich hums as they move through the never-ending sea of grass. 

 

It's only as Rob finishes a notably long poem that Rich notices the sun has shifted from its place atop the sky, and that the mountains are far closer. 

 

“Do we stop for the night?” 

 

Rob makes a thoughtful noise, shoulders lax as he shrugs. “Sometimes the journey is long, and sometimes it is easy. Sometimes people are scared of the night and other times they find themselves afraid of sleep.”

 

Rich sighs.“That's not an answer.”  

 

“It is.”

 

“Not,” Rich pouts and Rob gives a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

Rich sighs and looks out at the endless sea of grass and peaking stars. “We'll stay here for tonight. M’tired. Dying sucks.” 

 

Rob looks sad for a moment before he takes a seat on the ground, the grass blowing into his face. Rich sits in front of him. 

 

He mumbles sarcastically, “This is so much  _ fun. _ ” 

 

Rob tilts his head. “I am only here to guide, not to entertain.” 

 

Rich rolls his eyes. “You haven't done much guiding.” 

 

Rob grins, a little shy, the twilight not quite hiding his blush. “I can't guide you until you're lost.” 

 

Tilting his head, brow furrowed, Rich slowly says, “But I  _ am  _ lost.” 

 

Rob shrinks slightly under Rich's puzzled stare. “Erm, no. You're - you're finding your way. Still walking, moving somewhere.” 

 

Still not any less confused than he was at the start of the conversation, Rich gives a half-hearted shrug. The sky is now just stars - no small rays of sunlight to be seen. 

 

Rich lays back, legs still crossed, to stare up at the sky, spread out above him like some strange sea. There's rustling and the crackle of grass before Rob lays next to him, starlight casting his features in silver. 

 

He looks like a god, flowers and ferns tangled in his hair. 

 

“How long have you been doing this? The whole afterlife gig?”

 

Rob turns to look at him, eyes catching the stars like puddles, and he murmurs softly, “It's been my job since forever. This is what I am.” With starlight kissing his hair and moonlight draped over his face, Rich could believe it, that this man has been here since the dawn of time, helping people to whatever comes next. Rob presses on, eyes flicking away. “I've only walked the earth a scant handful of times. The world is a strange place to be when you weren't created there.”

 

Rich nods and turns away, resting his head back to look at the open sky. “Where were you... created?” His voice is soft, careful. 

 

There's a beat, then two, then a whole minute passes and Rich wonders if he's screwed up somehow. Rob finally responds, “I don't know.”

 

Rich takes a beat, a little shocked, a little sad, before he says, “That seems a little lonely, not knowing where you came from.”

 

Rob seems like he's going to reply, but he doesn't. He simply closes his mouth and stares up, and Rich thinks that Rob might just agree with him. 

 

“Goodnight, Rob.” 

 

Rob is silent for a moment of two, his answer delayed before he comes back with a, “Goodnight,” of his own. 

 

Rich lets his eyes flutter closed, his last sight of Rob still bathed in stars. 

 

His dreams are weird - normal, considering he's dead. They're vivid, moving in a way that's hard to match with sleepy hallucinations. 

 

When Rich wakes up, heart pounding, he doesn't remember much, but he remembers the feel of a steering wheel beneath his palms and a warm body leaning against him. His vision caught in a flash of muddled green, darkness and headlights swallowing up his vision.

 

There were lights, gasping, some small, frantic thing that needed to live. A jerk, something moving that shouldn't be, a rattling that scraped against Rich's bones. 

 

With his heart in his throat, Rich reaches up to rub at his eyes, hands scraping through his soft beard. He wonders if his cells are still reproducing, even in death - if his hair will get longer, if his face will age or his muscles grow weak. 

 

In his half-awake state, Rich swears he can hear a voice, leaking softly into his ears, asking him to come home. 

 

Five minutes later, Rich doesn't remember anything at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

They wander together, Rich leading them through seas of waving green that catch sun like wet spiderwebs.  It's the exact same as yesterday. Rob follows him still, the grass still curls over his skin, but it feels  _ different. _

 

Rich can't place it - that thing that feels  _ off.  _ The grass is still quiet, Rob still a ghost, and Rich's breathing still echoes far too loudly in the air. 

 

But there's a hum, a background murmur of noise that Rich can't place. It's from everywhere and nowhere, and it hurts and- 

 

Rich wonders why his heart's racing, wonders what he was thinking about to make it pulse in fear.

 

They walk and walk and walk, and Rich never grows tired, his feet never hurt, so they just...keep moving forward, meandering  and sailing on a sea that welcomes them. 

 

There's a second sun in the sky for a few moments - a flash that's gone before he was ever really sure it was there. 

 

The sun hangs in the sky, staring down at Rich and Rob as they plough through the grass, noise waving up in lazy rings that are lost into the blue. After a while, Rich starts to walk backwards, watching Rob silently pad behind him.

 

Rich notices for the first time that Rob's flower crown isn't just poppies and ferns - small purple bells are scattered in. He doesn't remember them being there, but then again, he isn't the most observant dead guy. Rich decides that contemplating flowers means it's far too quiet, his mind able to think of stupid details that shouldn't matter.

 

“S’too quiet, Robbie.”

 

Rob gives a low laugh, but there's a grating tone underneath, like something old is waking up. “You want more poetry?” 

 

Rich gives him a lopsided smirk. “Duh.”

 

Rob thinks for a moment, and the grass almost sounds like pages shuffling as he starts to speak, the undertone gone. “Learning to love differently is hard / love with the hands wide open, love…” 

 

And so they walked, poetry flowing through air to match the achingly slow pace of the clouds cutting through the sky. Rich didn't mention brushing sound that fit itself in around the words, like pages shushing his mouth shut, and he simply blamed the sound on the grass that had been nothing but silent. 

 

The day passes, and they keep walking, and Rob's voice fills the silence. He pauses sometimes, swallows and thinks. In those pauses, there's the shuffling of paper, the sound of something larger than himself shifting, and then Rob keeps talking, more and more words spilling out of him. 

 

It sneaks up on him, in-between the flashes of twin suns and the paper shuffling grass. Rob talks and talks, and the words are soft and suddenly Rich feels like he needs them. He'll die without them, waste away, and - 

 

There's something frantic in the air. He can taste it on his tongue, hear some vaguely desperate tone in Rob's voice. 

 

He can't breathe. 

 

There is no sun, no Rob, no - 

 

The world twists, and there's a wrench and something in his chest opens wide - 

 

He's asleep, and he wakes, grass around his ankles, softly tangled into knots. The sky is dark, and Rob sits beside him, still, not even a whisper of his hair moving. 

 

It feels like moving through molasses to sit up, something dense and thick, but it tastes like pennies on his tongue. 

 

Rob turns to him, and his eyes are flat, and Rich wonders to himself if it's a trick of the light that the ferns in his crown look wilted. 

 

Then Rob blinks, and it's all fine. His flowers are alive, and Rich is dead, and somehow that's okay. 

 

That's how it's supposed to be. 

 

Rich stretches softly. He wonders if this is how it's going to be - wandering around, sleeping and walking and waking and sleeping again. Rich sighs, and he notices that Rob isn't still - he's been breathing, and that's right. 

 

That's how it's supposed to be. 

 

The moon lights up the grass, caught on the green and turning it white or silver. Rich glances at Rob, and huffs, “How much further?” 

 

Rob purses his lips and tilts his head. “How much farther to what?” 

 

“To wherever we're going.” 

 

“We'll get there when we get there.” Rob's voice is grating again, something harsh and angled and cold. With his face hidden in stark shadow, moonlight catching only his eyes, Rich feels afraid of him. Then Rob tilts his head and light spills across his face, and the fear goes away. 

 

The fear goes away, and they get up, and they walk. Rich is still aimlessly wandering, Rob just following, and Rich is beginning to think that Rob is fucking useless. 

 

But they keep walking, endlessly pushing forward. Rich is tired, feels his feet shuffling and feels like stumbling, even through his path is straight, flat. He feels heavy, drained and weighed down, tired. It's not the type of tired that goes away. Rich can feel it to his bones, the weary ache. Fog starts to cloud the air, making the world hazy and hard to see through. 

 

He doesn't notice how it gets progressively colder, frost curling up from the grass to tie itself into the denim of his pant legs. His breath is forming white puffs in the air, and Rob speaks, for the first time in a while. “We're getting close.” 

 

Rich feels like crying with joy, and speeds up his pace. It's so cold that his eyelashes clump together frozenly, and Rich can feel how his whole body shakes for warmth. The grass isn't just crunching beneath his feet - it's breaking into shards like glass. Rich notices other trails, other broken swathes of grass, all headed in one direction. 

 

Dark figures walk through the fog, hazy and almost invisible. It's silent, but Rich can almost swear he hears the faint crackle and snap of frosted blades of grass, his own heartbeat racing in his ears.. 

 

The world is too quiet again, lacking that small hum that had been there. Rich turns, and Rob is a hulking figure behind him, beard and hair and flowers crusted with cold and white and his eyes are this pale, empty blue. 

 

Rich wants to scream. 

 

He stops, stops walking, and turns to face Rob entirely. Rich only needs to look at the grass that remains solid and white behind him to know that Rob isn't real. 

 

None of this is real. 

 

With that faint, small,  _ burning _ realization, the cold silence breaks to a faint beeping, small and steady. Rob takes a step forward. “Keep moving.” 

 

“What if I don't want to?” The beeping gets stronger, like a pulse of something to ward off the cold creeping into Rich's chest. He can't believe he ever thought Rob was beautiful. 

 

Rob's voice has the dark, gripping edge of sadness, of horror to it. It's metallic, his eyes blank of anything. “Keep walking.” 

 

Rich knows that something's wrong, knows he shouldn't be here. “No.” 

 

Rob moves forward, threatening, and Rich knows that he  _ shouldn't be here _ . Rich starts running, down the precut path of grass, feet snapping the frozen stalks as he runs, panting out mist. He feels like if he listens, he can hear Rob's own feet chasing after him. 

 

The beeping gets stronger, a steady sound that's unlike Rich's ragged breathing as he keeps running even though the air is warm. The sun warms the back of his neck, his back, spills through him. Rich has no shadow as he runs. 

 

He does not stop. 

 

There's the grove of trees, with its bare ground and sad branches, and Rich runs through, feet kicking up dust. He wonders how many others have run away. 

 

He wonders if he's running away from the right things. 

 

Rich bursts from the trees, and he feels more alive - more  _ real  _ \- than he ever has, since he woke up in that field. He can feel every twitch of his heart, in time with the steady beeping that clings to his footsteps. 

 

Even in running, and the steady quiet that surrounds him, Rich is convinced that Rob is close behind, and so Rich keeps running, heading towards the sea, glimmering like a promise of safety. 

 

“Stop! Stop running!” Rich can hear it behind him, the breathless metal grate of a voice, and he knows the warning it's trying to convey, but Rich can't stop - not when he's so close to - what? 

 

Yet -  _ and yet -  _ Richard stops running. The halt of momentum is almost enough to spin him face first into the dirt, but he catches himself. His chest is heaving with panic, with a heartbeat that pumps the blood under his skin and makes it itch like he somehow couldn't feel it before. 

 

“If you keep walking, you'll go off the edge.” 

 

Rich wants to turn around, face Rob - because it  _ is  _ Rob. He knows this now, can feel it - can almost see with perfect clarity those eyes, carefully blank and devoid of anything that made them human. “What edge?” Rich is almost sure that his voice is empty of humanity too. 

 

“The edge where lost souls go. You'll never make it to the sea - no one does. It's better to just come back with me. You'll be safe.” Rob's voice is almost normal - reminiscent of that first day, when he was warm and beautiful and so, so  _ right _ . But Rich can hear, now, the small grind to it, the sound of nails on a chalkboard and things that freeze in the desert. 

 

Rich refuses to be fooled, anymore. 

 

Rich wants to come up with a better reason, hell, a better  _ excuse _ , but he can't, not with his mind full of Rob, full of light and glimmer and the steady  _ beep-beep-beep.  _ But he can't, so what he says is, “S’cold.” 

 

There's a frustrated huff from behind him, the grass shifts silently under Rich's careful eye. “It gets better. Everything gets worse before it gets better.” 

 

At that, Rich gives in to the creeping eyes across his back and he turns, slightly angry - which is a bad idea. Rob is warm in the sunlight, eyes sparkling, hair rich and capturing the sun like a halo. Rich can't quite breathe a proper breath, but he speaks anyways. “Can you, absolutely, for sure, promise me that it gets better?” 

 

The only proof that something was ever wrong with Rob is when he speaks, the taint of cold and frost clinging to every pleading syllable. “Of course! You led us there, didn't you? In that direction? Your soul knows the way, Richard, let it lead you!” 

 

“No! It's wrong - that way is wrong! I can feel it.” 

 

“Richard, please. You know that's not true. This, the mountains, the higher road, is better. It's the way out of here.” Rob's eyes are wide and pleading, full of warm blue sky. 

 

Rich can still hear it though, that grit, and his response is firm, unwavering. “I'll make my own way out.” He takes a solid step back, towards the sea, and Rob seems to panic. 

 

The steady beep gets louder. It's in time to a pulse - Richard's pulse, he realizes. 

 

“Stop it!” Rob's voice is almost a growl. 

 

Rich takes another step back. “No.” 

 

Rob seems to grow a size or two, looming and threatening in the line of Rich's sight. Rich could swear he feels cold rolling off of Rob, thinks he can see the grass freezing and becoming delicate glass blades. “You are not a lost soul, Rich. Come with me - you need not suffer the dark.” 

 

Rich takes yet another firm, solid step backwards, chin tilted up in defiance of Rob's larger form. “I'm not afraid. I don't want to go with you.” 

 

“The dark is cold, Richard.” Rob's body twists unnaturally, his mouth becoming a leering slash in his face, arms dangling from their sockets and fingers curved into claws. “The dark will swallow you whole, like every other lost soul. I'm here, Richard, ready to guide you. Why do you resist?” His mouth has frost spiraling from it now, his teeth icicles, sharp and long and horrifying. 

 

Rob's eyes still remain full of the summer sky, bright and warm and tempting, even as his wreath of flowers falls to the ground and shatters, frozen petals bursting into glittering rain. Rich takes another firm step back, and he can't feel the cold as much - but he can smell something strong and blooming, something that stings his nose. 

 

Rich swallows a ball of horror that curdles in his throat and finds his voice, enough to state shakily, “I don't listen to monsters.” 

 

The thing in front of Rich no longer resembles the human form it had. It's a mass of broken bone and distorted ice skin, cracking with every gnash of teeth and shift of weight. It snarls, raspy and mouth dripping with a mockery of foam - crystallized and broken, shards falling to the ground. It's voice is ice, literally, ice-pick teeth chipping at each other with each word. 

 

“I am your guide. I will lead you to the only place you'll ever need to be. Come back, Richard. Come back.” 

 

“No thanks,” Rich says, shaking his head. “I'd rather not.” 

 

The thing that used to be Rob, it shakes with agitation and takes a cautious step with crooked legs in ripped jeans. Rich realizes that if it gets brave enough, it'll get him. 

 

It'll drag him back to the cold.

 

He takes a larger step back, and then another, a steady tumble-tumble-catch rhythm backwards, the sharp smell gathering in his nose. He realizes, after about five steps, it's the smell of bleach.

 

After seven steps, the only thing Richard can hear is the steady beeping and the shuffling of pages that he's sure is the grass. He feels warm, but cold eyes cling to his skin and fog makes up his bones. 

 

After fifteen steps, everything is too bright, almost surreal in how light glints off of colors, washing them out. Everything is white. 

 

Rob still shuffles towards him, dragging its broken icepick and bone self through the grass, so distorted with its wax skin and ice cells that Rich can barely find its eyes. 

 

The eyes that aren't faded or too bright. Still watching him. 

 

The next step back is a stumble, right into water that splashes around Rich's ankles, and when he glances down, the water is white. Behind him is not - it fades into black, water running right off the edge into a chasm too deep to see the bottom of. 

 

Rob lumbers closer, and Rich can hear its snarl. It lurches, dragging ice and frozen skin, and it's close enough to count the blood drops that burst from its skin, but freeze too quick to fall.

 

It's close enough to see that dim coldness of its eyes, and Rich closes his, and he feels cold creeping closer and he shifts and -

 

One more step back. 

 

He falls. 

 

With a jerking certainty, he knows, for a split second, that the thing is screaming above him, gaping mouth wide, teeth yawning open, and below Rich is a bed, white, with rails at the sides and an empty chair next to it - a chair that is supposed to be full and isn’t and Rich sees it and then it's gone. 

 

Everything is gone. 

 

The world is dark. Rich can see nothing, hear nothing. He smells medicine. Sharp cleaning chemicals that burn his nose. Slowly, the silence is broken with a beep. 

 

Soft, steady.  _ Beep-beep-beep.  _

 

The sound of pages turning. A voice - a man's. Rich gets a flash of visions of a body pressed to his, soft and pliable, a warm laugh, brown hair and blue eyes, eyes warm like summer. 

 

“I want you to come home, Rich. We miss you.” The man's voice grows thick. “I miss you.”

 

Rich finds himself wanting to say,  _ Don't worry, Robbie, I'm waking up soon.  _ But he can't. 

 

Rich can't say anything. Not anything that could be heard, anyways. The black stays pressing against him, against his eyes and chest, and it swallows him, for a while. 

 

He comes to with a light, shining over him. It flashes across briefly and then again. It's distant. The dark closes in around it, gobbles it up. 

 

Rich drifts, for a while. 

 

“Please, Rich, wake up.”

 

“Rich, the doc says you should wake up any time.”

 

“I'm waiting. Rich, I'm still  _ waiting. _ ” 

 

“Please.”

 

Rich moves. He can feel it - some break in conscious because of the break in Rob - the  _ real _ Rob's voice. Rich's mind become a steady thrum of Rob, filled with memories that unfold shakily inside his mind. 

 

Laughter, bright and quick and easy, melts the darkness, breaking into a scene. Rich, laughing at Rob, who's covered in flour. Rob's expression of shock, with wide eyes and gaping mouth before a fond eyeroll is the best thing Rich has ever seen. 

 

Rob, with his bright eyes and soft hands, carefully coaxing a dog towards him, looking at Rich with eyes that match the dog’s. Rich can only say,  _ Of course we can keep him _ . 

 

The same dog, small stubby legs that have to work to get up onto the bed until Rich takes pity and scoops him up. Rob smiles and kisses him, saying,  _ I knew he'd grow on you.  _

 

Tender hands plucking at guitar strings, a voice that winds itself inside of Rich's ribs with poetry and music and hums to him in his sleep. Hands that cup his face, stroke his hair,  _ Rob's  _ hands. 

 

Rich can see these things, feel them glowing inside him, can see Rob's laughing face in the passenger seat, with a wreath of flowers and healthy flush to his face. 

 

He can see the headlights through the window, catching on Rob's lashes, and Rich could count each individual hair, each individual  _atom_ . 

 

He feels the metal compact and crunch, feels his bones shatter inside his skin, sees the blurry flash of Rob as he cries,  _ Richie? Rich, say something! Say something, please!  _

 

The memories crumble into nothing, into sand, burying Rich under them. He can't breathe, and the world seems too still and dark, light flashes above him and Rich  _ reaches _ for it, stretching, arms seeming to lengthen, and he can hear Rob, now. 

 

Can hear his smooth voice and soft poetry. 

 

“I fought you / for yourself, I wrestled / to open you, I hung on.” 

 

As Rich breaks the surface, he wishes Rob and hung on harder. The world is still black, still sand, and now, it's silent. Even Rich's steady pulsing companion of a heart is still. 

 

Rich breathes in, breathes in summer and blood and blood sizzling on metal, and skin burning with smoke as Rich's body cools in silence and his heart is beating again, pulsing frantically - 

 

Everything is red and grey and angry, all harsh edges and dripping and Rich needs to breathe in something that doesn't taste like copper. There's a flash of green, and Rich reaches for it, grasps the flower crown -  _ knitted an hour earlier, Rob's careful musician hands weaving it together with a smile -  _ firmly in his hand, something comforting creeping softly into his bones.

 

It carefully puts him to sleep, lulling him into a soft place when he cannot understand what he hears or sees, where those needed memories are sand again, draining through the sieve that is Rich's mind, erasing every piece of knowledge he's gained. Each grain a piece of him, one that matters, and now it just counts the seconds until he'll wake up or die or - 

 

Rich wakes up to grass. 


End file.
